


I didn't mean to let you go

by euphorbic



Series: Tattoo fic and related short works [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Break Up, Jealousy, M/M, Makeup, Present Tense, Profanity, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-11 11:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5625136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphorbic/pseuds/euphorbic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Janos and Azazel haven't spoken since the events of Chapter Twelve of <i>The boy with the heart on his sleeve</i>. That's about to change.</p>
<p>(Or: That time Russia encroached on Spain's sovereign territory in an effort to normalize relations and Spain refused to negotiate beyond demanding heavy reparations.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entering and breaking

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter is already written just needs a major overhaul.
> 
> Here's my warning for the unedited and error-ridden Tumblr version:
> 
> _Contains foul language, some blasphemy (see foul language), breaking and entering, allusions to organized crime and homophobia, Azazel being shallow, feelings, sexual content, possessive/jealous behavior, discussion of gender roles._
> 
> Az's POV is extremely crass but the only violence in this chapter is a detailed thought of what he'd like to do to a character that isn't actually present. That said, just proceed carefully in case I haven't thought of everything I should warn for.

The apartment is smaller and tighter than a gnat’s asshole, but it isn’t hard to find nor get into. Part of it being so narrow means Azazel snags his arm on a coat coming through the door. The coat is part of a collection of other coats, hats, and scarves heaped on a top-heavy rack; it goes down, leaving Azazel with a handful of outerwear. The rack hits a rolling cart-shelf thing loaded with an international array of liquor bottles, oils, and spices.

It makes a hell of a noise when it hits, more so when bottles fall and scatter, but Janos isn’t home so it isn’t a problem. Not yet.

Azazel hisses his displeasure and quickly rights the coat rack and redistributes the weight of its burden so it's only a little less precarious. It makes him wonder if he’s got the right place; Janos isn’t this unorganized and there are none of the coats or scarves he bought Janos there. The outerwear he finds smell of colognes Azazel doesn’t remember.

His lip curls, because his nose for scents is encyclopedic; a trait so well-known to Janos that he had given Patrick Süskind’s novel to Azazel as a Valentine’s gift.

His dear Janos. His precociously morbid Janos. His handsome Janos who has probably thrown away all the colognes, all the coats, all the scarves. His Janos who is _not_ his because Azazel had drawn a line in the sand that Janos would be a fool not to cross. Janos has never been a fool and that is why Janos is... not his. He is Wilhemina NY’s. Perhaps he even belongs to somebody else now?

Azazel’s lip curls again and his nose wrinkles in kind. He checks his jealous rage, because in the end he can’t wish Janos ill. Azazel placed himself on the side of the beach opposite opportunity and drew the line and then refused to step over it with Janos. The blood of their relationship is clearly on his hands alone and he won’t blame Janos for tracking sand all the way to this dirty city.

With a crack of knees Azazel crouches and picks up the bottles that fell from the cart. He plucks a red handkerchief from his pocket for those that succumbed to entropy. Broken bottles are a theme with them, they’re the last thing they traded the night of Raven’s show. Azazel shakes his head and collects olive oil-covered glass from the floor.

If Janos has tracked sand, Azazel tracks things that are worse. Janos knows that; he once loved the excitement and chaos it had brought his life and Azazel had taken Janos’ acceptance for granted. If his queer leanings weren’t such a problem among the people he works for and with, Azazel would have had no problems parading Janos around New York like the trophy-winning show pony he is.

However, this city is a dangerous place for Azazel to be seen fucking around with a hot piece of male model ass like Janos Quested. There are too many people in New York that Azazel has worked with or against in the past and they would talk. Or blackmail. He’s never told Janos outright, but he’d hinted and hinted heavily at that.

After cleaning up Azazel surveys the coat rack again. Typical of Janos it is all seasonally appropriate for autumn with rich browns, oranges, and scatterings of green that will pick up the bits of green in his hazel eyes. Many pieces are cashmere but more are silk. If this is what Janos keeps by the door, the better goods should be hanging up in garment bags in his tiny studio. Azazel throws away the glass and his handkerchief and walks through the narrow kitchen to the living space.

What he finds is so unlike Janos that Azazel snorts in half confusion, half shock. It’s like Janos consulted an Ikea showroom. On the other side of the open bookshelves that separate the wardrobe from the rest of the abbreviated space is a lofted bed with a dressing table and mirror beneath it, a flatscreen television ziptied to the bed’s support structure, and a hanging magazine rack with pockets filled with magazines, a tablet, and possibly the sleek laptop Azazel had bought him last year.

The lofted bed is so close to the ceiling that Azazel is sure Janos has no intention whatsoever of bringing anyone back here for sex. He drops his gaze back down to the floor; there’s a thick sheepskin rug that’s probably scratchier than an old man’s pubic hair. It looks inviting only if you don’t know the difference between a real sheep and a stuffed one.

Also unusual, the walls are bare. It’s likely this place doesn’t allow nails, but imagining a Janos that gives a fuck about such restrictions is too exhausting of a mental workout. There isn’t even anything unique or decorative about the wardrobe. The only romance to the space is the bright colors of some of the bedding Janos has up on the bed’s mattress.

Azazel passes the book shelf and appraises the bed again. Fucking on this thing would get any and all life and health insurance cancelled, but it smells good. _Blyad_ , it smells good. Even though he knows Janos would be cross, Azazel walks, shoes on, to the bed and takes a fistful of the colorful bedding and pulls it to his nose.

There’s no way he can keep his eyes open. God and the devil, it’s been too long with no contact, and now it’s overwhelming. Behind his eyelids he thinks of Janos there on the impractical bed, he imagines him rubbing a cashmere scarf against his neck, his underarms, his cock, and then shoving it in Azazel’s face to smell.

Azazel breathes out through his nose and then fills his lungs again with Janos’ scent and in that breath he smells something more. He smells Janos’ old favorite Kenzo, but he also smells something more striking. Azazel thinks of the proverb about the fox that knows the smell of his own den, and yes, that’s what this is. He smells the expensive aftershave Janos used to buy him and, fainter yet, he smells himself.

He pulls the bedding closer to his face; it’s smooth and soft. Azazel opens his eyes and sees red. It’s not bedding, it doesn’t even belong to Janos. It’s one of Azazel’s red scarves and Janos has been sleeping with it next to his pillow.

“Yanochka,” he breathes and balls the scarf up to press against his face. This is why he’s here. This is what he hoped to find. Here is a clue, a possibility, that there are still feelings and that evil thing known as hope hasn’t died. The feeling rising in him is as elating as it is damning.

Azazel sits down at the vanity and waits for Janos with the scarf pressed to his nose and mouth.

It’s hours later, fully past midnight when Azazel hears keys and then the door bang open; Azazel had left the door unlocked. Azazel has also left the entryway/kitchen light and the studio’s overhead lamp on.

He hears rustling and closes his eyes again to better imagine what Janos is doing or thinking. If he is smart he will remember something concerning similar situations Azazel warned him about; he should leave the door open and walk away. Instead, Azazel hears something else.

“Hello, 911?”

Azazel drops the scarf on the vanity and tilts his head back. He can’t remember the last time he rolled his eyes this hard.

“I want to report a robbery that maybe is in progress.”

“Janos, please, there is no robbery,” Azazel says loudly and drops a hand over his face. He hopes Janos explains the situation before any police are dispatched to break up their little reunion. It would certainly be uncomfortable if Azazel was there long enough for them to show up.

“ _Qué cabrón._  How do I know? I did not give you my address or key. Get the fuck out.”

Janos hasn’t come in any farther than the doorway; Azazel has yet to hear the apartment door shut. Probably he is standing there with the door open waiting for Azazel to leave. 

“I only want to talk, but not outside your door,” Azazel says. He thinks about walking over there, but he’s taller than Janos and his intimidation factor is not something he wants to employ tonight. “Come inside. It will take five minutes. Tell those nice 911 people there is no trouble.”

There’s another rustle, something hits the floor and rolls, and then the apartment door closes. Janos is cursing in vehement Spanish. He starts with goats again and then goes from fishes fucking Azazel all the way to shitting on the sacrament. Azazel likes Spanish; it’s cute.

When Janos finally finishes his sacrilegious rant, Azazel leans forward eagerly and rests his forearms on his knees. He peers through the bookshelf and curses in Russian, because,  _blyad_ , he’s like a teenage boy with his heart twisting in his ribs for a glimpse of the handsome Spaniard.

When Janos comes into view, he paused and dressed too casually in the doorway, Azazel takes a reflexive breath. This beautiful man, he’s wearing faded black skinny jeans, a charcoal double-breasted coat, and a natural-wool scarf  made with yarn the width of two of Azazel’s fingers. He’s half hipster and half cover boy, but his eyes are smudged and weary. 

Why must Janos be so fucking pretty? Azazel’s shallow, knows he shouldn’t care what a piece of ass looks like, but Janos’ face hooked Azazel’s dick one fateful day back in Portland. It didn’t take long to be reeled in for Janos’ personality to pillage what passed for Azazel’s heart. He rues the day he and a few business partners went to downtown Portland as part of a one-time thing.

They’d gotten curious about the festival atmosphere that Friday more than a year ago and went for coffee at that stupid vegetarian café. The three of them ended up flirting badly with a group of pierced and tattooed models from a street side fashion show. His two business contacts still think Azazel followed Janos to an after party to find more conventional women.

“There is no 911 people,” Janos says. It’s clear he’s tired, Azazel knows those eyes, knows that voice. “Now go. I have my moisturizer things to do to my face. I smell like cigars and I want to eat.”

“I came to apologize,” Azazel replies. He straightens in the chair and drops folded hands into his lap. “Will you allow that?”

Janos’ eyes, dark and rich, move slowly up from where they were staring at the floor. Azazel watches him swallow and then blink rapidly. His contoured lips part and he whispers, “ _Me cago en tu puta madre_.”

Azazel leans back in the cheap, molded plastic chair. “You never met my mother.”

It only takes one step backward for Janos to disappear from the doorway. Azazel waits patiently. He listens to Janos go into the closet-like bathroom and hears bath water start. Since Janos hasn’t repeated that he should leave, Azazel looks down at his hands and thinks about the situation. Maybe this is his chance. Janos can wash away the smell of cigars and do all his skin care alchemy without any help, but cooking? That’s something he can do just as well as Janos.

The shower comes on and sets Azazel’s course; he slips from the living space to the narrow kitchen. Janos’ coat is on the overburdened rack with the scarf, his jeans and sweater are folded on top of the refrigerator. On the floor is a canvas bag filled with groceries; a few grapefruits have fallen from it and rolled across the parquet floor.

Working as quickly and efficiently as is natural to him, Azazel snags the canvas bag and starts putting the contents away; the process quickly familiarizes him with the tiny kitchen and its contents. He counts himself lucky that Janos has the makings for a simple version or pierogis using wanton wraps and enough vegetables for a decent salad he can spice up with the grapefruit that hit the floor. There’s decent bread in the bag, but the only bacon he finds is heavily processed and vacuum-packed. This isn’t like Janos any more than all the Ikea furniture or coat rack.

It’s hard to prepare food in such a small place, it’s reminiscent of the galleys on some of the worse ships he’s been on. Azazel’s hand-eye coordination, his efficiency, makes the best of the situation and if he takes a short break before caramelizing onions in bacon grease to press Janos’ sweater to his nose, so be it.

Janos takes long showers; longer yet when Azazel joins him. But this shower takes so long that Azazel thinks the quick beet, carrot, and spinach salad he cut up with grapefruit and drenched with one of Janos’ exotic vinegars might pickle. In fact, he’s almost done stuffing a blend of cottage cheese, egg, onions, and mushrooms into the wanton wrappers (an idea he picked up from watching Japanese sailors make gyouza) before the shower turns off.

He says nothing, doesn’t even touch the door. He’s announced his desire to make an apology, there’s nothing more he can do with words now, only actions. The food will be a gesture of goodwill or a bribe depending on how Janos decides to interpret it; it’s a joke between them that fine food is the way to each other’s heart. Azazel pulls to a quick stop when he checks Janos’ wine stores for something that might go with pierogies. Riesling? Moscato? Janos’ collection is small and contains either ridiculously expensive or supermarket buys. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.

While the pierogies cook, Azazel roots out two glasses and fills them up with an expensive Moscato. It’s not Janos’ usual brand, perhaps it was a gift. Azazel glances at the bathroom door and then takes a quick swig straight from the bottle; if it was a gift he feels it is now appropriately desecrated with his scarred lips. He sets it on the rolling cart where the olive oil used to be.

Janos doesn’t come out of the bathroom until after the pierogis are fully cooked and Azazel has set the burner’s heat to its lowest setting to keep them warm. He’s wearing a bathrobe, hair in a towel, and his face shines with whatever creams he’s put on. Below his eyes are additional half-moon shaped eye packs; it’s probably the Korean stuff he always made Azazel buy when he was at the port in Pusan. There were always plenty of Russian-speaking prostitutes there that knew the best ones. 

Even like this, with his long hair hidden, his face oily and sporting the cosmetic eye patches, Azazel is disgusted to find Janos just as desirable as ever. Were it four months ago he’d be under that bathrobe in a second.

“Why are you here?” Janos asks.

Azazel hands him the glass of wine. “I told you; I came to apologize.”

“No, _cabrón_ ,” Janos says but takes the wineglass anyway. “Why are you here still? This is not football; in my home five minutes is five minutes.”

Azazel is pulled equally between a laugh and a glower. “You wanted me to apologize outside your bathroom door instead of hall door?”

“I wanted you to leave.” Janos looks away as he says it. “Do you think your apology will get something? Say your words and go. I need sleep.”

The Moscato in Azazel’s glass is far more inviting than Janos’ attitude, it ripples and shines as he moves. Perhaps there is only so much food and wine can do. “I’m sorry, Janos. Your choice made me angry because New York is a dangerous city for us to be together. After the fight I thought I would not think of you by now, but I think of you every day.”

“You and your danger,” Janos says. He swirls the wine in his glass in a mirror image of Azazel. “Don’t take me so lightly. Finish your glass and go.”

Janos takes the plate of salad and turns his back on Azazel. If not for the red scarf and Janos’ obvious intent to eat the food Azazel prepared for him, Azazel would break the wine glasses to finish it.

He places the half empty glass in the sink and turns the heat off on the stove. Before he walks out, though, he leaves his phone number with the sweater left on the refrigerator. Maybe Janos deleted his number after their fight, he doesn’t know. He leaves it not for Janos, he tells himself, but for the return of his scarf.

* * *

The thing about Janos that drives Azazel a little mad isn’t that he likes fucking him, because Azazel isn’t the type to get attached to whatever piece of flesh that gets him off no matter the gender. That’s how it was in the military and that’s how it’s been since he moved into security where there’s better and more unethical money. He doesn’t have a sense of shame so he doesn’t care that Janos has long hair and a dick. What he minds and what drives him mad is that in the time they’d been together, Azazel had formed an insidious addiction that long hauls on the Northern Sea Route haven’t cured.

The lack of daily messages and the absence of the occasional deluge of selfies Janos had once sent is like living with a phantom limb. He can feel the fucking thing itching but there’s nothing to scratch and there’s no equivalent mirror therapy that works. He doesn’t have anything like the scarf Janos stole and when he had picked up a bottle of Janos’ favorite Kenzo cologne, it didn’t smell the same without Janos’ chemistry to reinterpret it.

And so it’s a combination of jetlag and a dull hangover the next morning that keeps Azazel in his hotel bed until noon. This is what he gets for mixing Janos’ Moscato with bourbon. He’s almost fully clothed; at least he had managed to take off his shoes and jacket.

He sneers into his pillow. What kind of pathetic man has he become? This is the thing men in the military and such always talk about with disgust. Usually they say it’s pussy that makes a man weak. Women. Azazel isn’t stupid, he knows it’s attraction and, in the worst cases, love. _Pizda_ , _khuy_ , whatever; they don’t sway him the way Janos does. Love makes men feel vulnerable and that’s the thing they hate. Azazel knows and accepts it, but he doesn’t like it anymore than any self-deluded asshole would.

He grabs his work phone to check messages and sees little that would cause him any trouble. His personal phone, the one that he uses to communicate with his small circle of trusted friends, including Raven and Janos, has a message. Azazel grits his teeth and unlocks the phone to retrieve it. It’s from a number he doesn’t recognize and was sent six hours ago.

_If you want it back go to MoMA Café 2 at 6:45._

Azazel squints at the message but that doesn’t provide the context he needs. The messages above the cryptic statement is more helpful.

_Thank you for cooking dinner. Is that why you left your number?_

_It’s for my scarf._

“ _Blyad_.” It comes out as a sigh. He doesn’t want the scarf back; he wants Janos to have it there to bring him back to his senses. Azazel wants Janos to lose the fight Azazel lost first.

* * *

Most, if not all, of his business partners understand Azazel’s taste for finer things, because those things are all symbolic of status. Azazel’s clothes, his accessories, his alcohol, his propensity for travel, and his taste for fine arts fulfill status which in turn grants him respect. They’re also his personal preference; his interest in fine arts is legitimate. So after cleaning up and doing a little shopping for what he thinks of as ‘penance gifts’, he shows up early to the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art to check out their Kandinsky.

In New York he has some anonymity in public; even in Portland people tend to notice the incongruity of his scarred face with his clothes. It’s even more apparent when he’s in Janos’ company. In New York only tourists give a shit about him and he can browse the museums without any trouble.

Of course, there are certain areas of New York that are unwise for him to traverse looking the way he does. Azazel isn’t mafia, but people assume, and he does, in fact, work with them. He’s dirty by association and design.

He takes his fill of the paintings and then the sculptures, snubs the gift shop, and makes his way to Café 2 about ten minutes before he’s due. He scans the place for suspicious-looking people out of habit and notes Janos at a table with three other people; two blond women and a man with hair reminiscent of Janos’ former roommate, Sean. They all look good and they’re all talking except, of course, Janos. Janos who is wearing Azazel’s red scarf in an artful knot around his throat.

Azazel walks to the coffee queue and successfully orders a Guillermo. In New York he usually doesn’t have to explain why he wants espresso over lime. The girl with curly hair at Morpho had been confused the first time he explained what he wanted.

Before he takes his order Azazel checks his watch: 6:41pm. The espresso turns out to be tolerable, but it’s always better in Italy and, oddly enough, at the café in Portland.

Back at Janos’ table, Janos looks at his phone and then repositions his chair to face the entrance that joins the Museum rather than the one from outside. It makes Azazel smile to see that Janos knows him that well and then he feels a swell of satisfaction when Janos rearranges the scarf and tucks the loose ends into his coat and then pulls them out again. The woman next to him notices his fidgeting; she reaches over and rearranges it for him while she continues talking.

Irritation is waiting in Azazel’s wings, but it fades away: this is normal familiar behavior between Janos’ model friends. They have an eye for what looks good and will occasionally primp and preen each other like birds. Azazel tells himself if she was really interested in Janos she would give him her undivided attention, not carry on a conversation with somebody else like a mother with her son.

His drink is gone before 6:45 and Janos alternates between checking his phone and staring at the door: Azazel isn’t one to be late.

He approaches the table right on time just not from the direction Janos is fixated on. The other three people at the table notice him first. One of the blondes stops talking and cautiously looks away; he pegs her as Russian or from the surrounding area. He can’t really blame her for wanting to avoid his attention.

The other two look at him curiously until Azazel breaks the creeping tension with the two syllables of Janos’ name.

Janos doesn’t even turn around, he pockets his phone and wallet and stands from his chair. While they look on, Janos bids his friends goodbye. However, the redhead doesn’t seem to take the hint. He stands and smiles blithely at Azazel and proceeds to introduce himself in Basque-country Spanish.

Azazel smiles his polite smile which has never made him look less menacing and says nothing. Janos repeats that he’ll see them later and takes Azazel by the arm. On the way back into the museum Azazel doesn’t hear the other models speak another word, but it could be due to the BGM.

Inside the museum Azazel lets Janos lead him around by the arm; he says nothing but his hand doesn’t drop from Azazel’s black jacket. They seem to be heading back to the abstract expressionists, their steps echo softly in the gallery spaces behind them. It’s almost laughable when they pause before Joan Miro who, as far as Azazel is concerned, is the Spanish answer to Vasiliy Kandinsky.

Neither of them say anything to break the quiet. Azazel has never been uncomfortable with their silence before this. He looks over the paintings briefly and then moves the shopping bag in front of Janos. The warmth of Janos’ hand leaves his arm and both his manicured hands come together to hold the handles of the bag apart. Janos reaches inside to open the tissue paper.

“ _Me cago en la leche._ ”

Azazel usually assumes that shitting on milk is the good kind of shitting on something when it comes to Spaniards. Spanish swearing is cute in comparison to Russian swearing, though it has been somewhat cute the few times Janos has tried using Russian _mat_.

Janos draws out the light brown fabric from the tissue and runs it against his cheek. “Vicuna? This is expensive.”

Azazel nods. “It is difficult choosing between luxury and useful for you. I brought it to trade.”

Janos rubs the new scarf against his cheek and then tilts his head to the opposite side to rub his cheek against red cashmere. “No trade. You don’t want your old scarf back.”

“Janos.” Even though he’s right Azazel draws the name out with a hint of menace. “What do you think I want?”

“You want to buy me with this $5,000 scarf, but there is a problem with your plan.”

“And that is?”

“You are not the richest man I know.”

How does Janos make him roll his eyes so much? As if Janos hasn’t passed over richer and more powerful men and women in the past. “Is that so? Who is?”

Janos smirks. “Raven’s brother, Charles.”

The red Azazel momentarily sees is not his scarf. The other thing about Janos that drives Azazel mad is his mercilessness. “Janos. Charles went home with Erik that night, yes?” 

Janos’ eyes, like coffee-stained velvet, narrow. He brings the vicuna scarf up to cover his lower face and nuzzle into the softness of it. His lids eclipse his eyes completely in an expression of pleasure that may or may not be entirely feigned. Either way, Azazel knows with crystal clarity that he’s being played, but he also knows Janos wouldn’t play this game if he wasn’t at least entertaining the idea of allowing Azazel to make up with him.

“Do you want to talk about that night?” Janos says from behind the first of what will likely be multiple penance gifts. 

Azazel chews on the inside of his lip but nods. Really, he’d rather just get whatever punishment Janos has in mind over with and then get on with the makeup sex. If there’s going to be a makeup at all. If Raven’s overwhelmingly irritating brother isn’t involved somehow with Janos. He remembers the first time he met Charles Xavier in Janos’ loft. The _pizda_ had a lot of nerve walking out of Raven’s room in just his underwear with a hard on. He’d no idea Azazel was there.

_Blyad_ , he’ll break his hands and cut off his fingers. Except he has always liked Raven and Raven wouldn’t forgive that sort of inhuman violence if he visited it on her brother. She’d call the police and with all Xavier’s money that could make Alaskan ports problematic.

“Take me to dinner,” Janos says, voice muffled within the soft folds of fabric he’s pressing to his mouth.

“The restaurant here has good ratings.” Expedience is of the utmost importance when Janos is in the mood to play with his prey.

Janos drops the vicuna from his face to show a scowl. “No, it has only one Michelin star. I want two.”

Azazel is absolutely certain the MoMA’s restaurant has more than one Michelin star. Perhaps Janos simply refuses to be rushed, so Azazel turns to reasoning. “Two-star restaurants greatly need reservations on Friday nights.”

A snort and a look of incredulity makes short work of reasoning, too. “I have someone who can get reservations.”

Azazel nods in acquiescence; he has yet to win a round in this match, but that’s how this will go until Janos is satisfied. He gestures to the room’s exit. “Choose something where my face and accent will be no problem, eh?”

This time Janos’ squints like a well-pleased cat and wraps the new scarf around his neck over the red one. “There are no Michelin stars for gay bars.”

That’s one thing Azazel can say for Janos’ cunning; there aren’t usually many homophobes or, in Azazel’s case, gangsters at gay bars. “Gay bars or safe two-star restaurant: your choice.”

“Michelin.”

Azazel walks them out of the museum and outside to hail a cab while Janos punches away on his phone with his contact that has the connections to get reservations to a place that isn’t Italian, Korean, Russian, Chinese, or Japanese. Janos remains focused on his phone when a cab pulls up, but Azazel doesn’t find it annoying, he simply guides Janos into the cab with all the familiarity he’s missed. Pride and habit have been keeping him at a comfortable distance that he overlooks in the backseat of the taxi.

The cabbie asks where they’re going. Janos looks up from his phone and answers with a wide circular gesture.

“Just drive,” Azazel interprets.

The cabbie takes them toward Central Park. Azazel doesn’t really care where they’re headed as long as he can keep his leg against Janos’. He enjoys the relative peace and quiet of the cab until Janos has an address on East 55th Street for them.

“Nordic,” he murmurs to Azazel. “You can thank Charles.”

Azazel doesn’t reply, but he thinks he’s going to beat the shit out of that _pizda_ anyway, Raven not withstanding.

The place turns out to be named after Norwegian seasoned liquor and even though Janos had the connection, they have to wait forty-five uncommunicative minutes to replace a last minute cancellation.

Once seated Janos orders the _prixe fixe_ for them and it’s over whiskey, herring, and dry-cured gravlax (but mostly the whiskey) that Janos begins to loosen up. Azazel likens him unto an oyster that holds its lips tightly closed to protect what is soft and what is valuable. Of course, it’s not at all lost on Azazel that oysters are also notorious aphrodisiacs.

Janos often appears relaxed even at the most tense of moments, but Azazel knows the real opening of his defenses only comes when he is one-on-one with somebody he is familiar with and trusts. So it is no surprise that it takes a refill of fennel-tasting alcohol to open Janos’ lips a bit, little by little.

“We both saw Charles go home with Erik,” Janos finally says.

Azazel’s glass pauses on its way back down to the table, waiting for the following words to either continue or reverse its direction.

“But many crazy things happened the next day.” Janos leans back with his glass, holding it before him with one hand while the other hand rests on the table. “But, important to us, Erik tore apart his shop and he and Charles rejected each other.”

Azazel’s glass makes the return trip to Azazel’s lips, but he’s careful to just taste the burn, not feed the fire that smolders in his gut. “Nobody touched you?”

It’s Janos’ glass that returns to the table instead. He tilts his head back and parts his lips to accommodate a slow pass of his tongue over the front of his top line of teeth. It can be easy for Azazel to forget that Janos is a man that possesses no small amount of physical strength, but this expression reminds him; it’s one Janos uses for intimidation. Azazel isn’t easily intimidated, but he remembers just how big the radius had been when Janos threw a bottle of gin on the floor that night.

“You have no right to ask or avenge, Azazel.”

Under any other circumstance Azazel would let the way Janos says his name (always with that Spanish ‘a’) warm or gentle him, but not this time. “Of course.”

Janos’ stares at him for another few beats and then he returns to his plate. They sit in another silence that Azazel knows better than to assume Janos will break. When the pork collar is set before them Azazel thinks his English vocabulary over and constructs what he wants to convey as well as he can.

“I apologized, which is challenge of pride,” he says quietly, but with no lack of certainty, “but that is not enough for you. That is my due, yes? I agree with that.”

Janos’ stubborn jaw works even though he hasn’t brought his fork to his mouth yet. “What do you mean about touching me?”

A small victory. “Did any one hurt you?”

“Only the asshole that made such a mess in my home.”

A loss. The sea bass looks utterly unpalatable. “I have no defense.”

“No,” Janos agrees, “you do not.”

Janos finishes the bass. Azazel doesn’t.

The third course is dessert and starts with a braised pear with white chocolate and condensed milk; Azazel waves it away. Janos has no such compunctions and cuts into the fruit on his plate with the side of his fork’s tines.

“We cannot unbreak the bottles,” Azazel says. “I cannot erase what I said or the months of no contact. I am glad you did not allow me to limit you to that small career in Portland, but I do miss you.”

Janos’ eyes fall shut but he still manages to place the fork back on its rest on the table. He reaches up to the red scarf that he didn’t give up when their coats were taken and opens them again. “I know you found the scarf.”

Azazel’s eyes are riveted to Janos face. “Yes, but you are stubborn and I worry that I cannot have you back.”

Janos’ releases the red material and falls back to quietly eating the pear, then turns to the currents and meringue. “I slept with three people since you left.”

It’s only because he knows he has no right to anger and because he wants Janos back that Azazel manages to not show how hot his blood has suddenly become. But he can’t not ask. “Raven’s brother?”

“There was no chance,” Janos says evenly, “and Raven says Charles is trying to reunite with Erik.”

Tension melts from Azazel’s shoulders. “And your three? Do you want any of them?”

A small smirk pulls at Janos’ lips. “You met them today. Do any look like my type?”

Azazel shakes his head in rueful admiration, the audaciousness of Janos’ actions are impressive. His mercilessness and cruelty attract and repel Azazel all at once, but he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t admire those qualities in Janos. He’s a lover that should never be underestimated.

“That Basque boy, perhaps,” Azazel says, “but only if he has connections to their liberation movement.”

No quick reply is forthcoming from Janos beyond a small nod. He abandons his utensils and downs the rest of his drink. Azazel reads his actions as a desire for departure and raises a hand for their bill.

“Gay bar is next?”

There’s an expression that defies interpretation on Janos’ face as he shakes his head. “Take me home and maybe we will talk tomorrow.”


	2. Degrees of silence and space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word _puto_ (male whore) is used a lot in this chapter. 
> 
> For warnings in this chapter, please hit the end notes! I never know how much or how little to warn for, so please always let me know how I can better warn you if you have triggers.
> 
> Also, since it’s important for me to construct extensive backgrounds for character depth/motivation, I had to do a lot of thinking about Janos’ and Azazel’s origins beyond what I was thinking for them in _The boy with the heart on his sleeve_. In doing so, I decided to go with some ethnic Kazakh ancestry for Az. Though an Andalusian upbringing for Janos was always in the back of my head.

They don’t meet the next day but Azazel finds a message Janos sent before sunrise. The message says that Janos wants to meet for coffee Sunday morning instead and that Azazel shouldn’t arrive at their destination empty-handed. It’s a cue for more penance shopping and who is Azazel to deny? He’s just glad he makes enough money to buy Janos’ indulgence, if not forgiveness.  
  
He spends Saturday morning in busy Manhattan browsing gifts based on expense alone, and in the afternoon he decides to combine expense with history and a little more taste. He’s looking through vintage Tiffany when he gives up and takes out his phone to get advice from somebody he hasn’t talked to since he stormed out of Portland.  
  
Her number hasn’t changed but neither has his, so he’s pleasantly surprised when she actually picks up. After all, she doesn’t work Saturdays.  
  
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, you asshole.”  
  
“I do.” He takes his time walking out of the shop and out into the street while Raven is quiet on the other side of the continent. “Can we talk?”  
  
He sees nobody suspicious, but this is Manhattan and it’s entirely likely people have seen him. As long as he isn’t caught being affectionate with Janos, something that may never happen now, New York is less of a problem. People might ask him what he’s doing there but as long as he makes it clear it isn’t business, it should be fine.   
  
“I don’t know,” she says, “have you apologized to Janos? Because I have nothing to say to you until that happens.”  
  
“Apologies are process with him,” Azazel says and leans back against a building wall. “I am three days into this process and maybe it will be much longer.”  
  
There’s a long silence on the other side of the connection. Normally Azazel would listen closely for the background noise on the other end, but the street is far too noisy for that.  
  
“Okay,” Raven finally says. “What do you want?”  
  
“Vintage designer jewelry or something modern? I do not trust modern standards for diamonds.”  
  
Even the city traffic doesn’t disguise Raven’s heavy sigh. “Yeah, yeah, okay. No, go with vintage, but what makes you think he should take you back? Be real with me, Az. I know you guys love to argue and I know Janos loves pushing your buttons, but we were all so scared for him that night that we took him to a hotel.”  
  
Azazel reflexively takes the phone from his face to look at it in disbelief. Yes, he really is talking to Raven. He lifts the phone back up to speak. “Why? I am tall and have scary face, yes, and this accent makes people think wrong things, but I do not hurt my friends.”  
  
“Wait, you’re not…? You’re not one of those, you know, people that, uh. You know, _those people_.”  
  
It makes him impatient, because he just said as much and she’s not answering his question. Azazel’s voice drops in register and deepens with his accent, “Why take him to hotel?”  
There is yet another pause on the connection and he checks the phone again, this time to make sure she hasn’t disconnected or the signal hasn’t been dropped.  
  
“Okay, try this,” Raven says after another moment. “I’m going to have you picture something. I want you to imagine this scenario. Think about all the people you know and then picture the guy or girl that’s the most controlled but intimidating. That person is standing behind the bar here at the loft. Got it?”  
  
Azazel shrugs and does as he’s asked. Maybe the most intimidating person he’s ever met was one of the guys he knew in Spetsnaz. Like Azazel he’d gone onto other things, but those things involved tattoos and jail time. “Yes. And then?”  
  
“Okay, now picture Janos next to him at the bar, arguing. Your person and Janos both have bottles in their hands. Now, usually that person is kind of cool-headed, but all of the sudden he or she flips out and goes absolutely aggro. They lift up the bottle. Maybe they’re going to hit Janos with it? You don’t know, but then he throws it against the bar and it shatters. And Janos—”  
  
“Enough.” Azazel keeps his face blank as best he can in public, but his heart has picked up and his skin feels warmer than the rest of his body. “That man is me, yes?”  
  
“Yeah,” Raven sighs. “We’re not former military or security or whatever, Az. Janos is built and everything, but he’s a terror on the tennis courts and soccer fields. He’s not… he’s not… I don’t know. We were all scared and Janos really shut down. All he’d say is that we should never talk about it. Ever. I know how he felt; I lived with that kind of thing when I was a kid, maybe he did, too.”  
  
It’s like a controlled detonation in his head has gone off. He hadn’t seen it that way at all. Janos had been angry and he, too, threw a bottle, but, of course, only after Azazel had.  
  
Azazel returns to Raven’s former question. What makes him think Janos should take him back, indeed? Had somebody done to Janos what he had done there would have been literal hell to pay. How can he make up that sort of transgression to himself, let alone Janos? As for Raven’s idea about childhood abuse, Janos rarely talks about growing up in Granada. All he knows is that Janos’ mother is beautiful, he is the eldest of a few brothers and sisters, somebody in his family owns olive and caper fields, and somebody else in the family values music. And that in the time he’s known Janos, he’s never once mentioned a desire to visit Spain.  
  
“Are you there, Az?”  
  
Azazel takes a deep breath of unseasonably cold weather through his nose. “This changes things.”  
  
“That’s good, I guess.” Raven says. “You should go with the vintage, but not designer. Don’t put somebody else’s name on it, okay?”  
  
“Thank you.” It seems like too little, but what else is there to say? Ah, yes. “Raven?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“I am sorry I made you scared.”

* * *

On Sunday Azazel is on time, which, unlike at MoMA, is a habitual five minutes early when it comes to Janos. Janos is the one that usually strategizes his arrivals; if he’s late it’s to purposely draw out anticipation and increase desire. However, this time Janos is already sitting at a window seat with an empty demitasse. He is wearing what passes as casual for Janos, but is a careful mix of designer, gifted, and painstakingly-thrifted goods. Not one piece of this outfit is familiar to Azazel and that is, of course, intentional. His scarf, for example, is a rich Turkish thing in autumn colors.

Azazel skips ordering and simply sits next to Janos facing the window. Janos says nothing, no good morning, no indication that Azazel is anything more than a stranger. So Azazel says nothing either, but he places the sleek shopping bag between them.

Janos turns his head to look at the bag with silent appraisal. Though he pulls it in front of himself, he doesn’t reach in the bag or even part the sides to peer within.

The disinterest feels like the end, but ever since he talked to Raven Azazel started to think this has always been a fool’s venture. He wishes he’d talked to her sooner; he would never have made this brash attempt so recklessly, if ever.

They sit side by side and nothing more. Janos doesn’t take out his phone or make any other moves toward the shopping bag, he merely picks up the empty demitasse and rolls it back and forth between his palms. It’s not the most uncomfortable silence Azazel has ever endured; it’s filled with thoughts. Janos’ thoughts are veiled, of course, but Azazel assumes he’s thinking how far to take the farce before making a cold, hard end of it. Azazel’s thoughts are decidedly bleak and realistic.

People come and go, but nobody comes near their portion of window. For a café it’s remarkably quiet for all the traffic. After half an hour of relative quiet, Azazel hears the tiny click of ceramic on ceramic from Janos placing the demitasse on its saucer. When the shopping bag crinkles Azazel swivels his head just enough to watch Janos from of the corner of his eye.

Janos tips the bag over and slides the blue velvet box out into his palm. He holds the base of the box against his palm and flips the top back with his thumb.

It wasn’t the most expensive ring, but it was the only men’s Art Nouveau piece and even if the gold carving on the sides is a bit worn, Azazel thinks the three huge diamonds make up for it. Janos tips the box back to catch sunlight on the diamonds; they’re dazzling, throwing fragments of rainbows all around.

“There is no amount of money,” Azazel says, “that will change that night. There is also not enough air for apologies. If you want me to go away, I will go.”

The box snaps shut. Janos doesn’t look over; he stares outside at the street. “Now you give up?”

“Only if you say.” Azazel rests his folded hands on the counter. “Otherwise I will not stop making efforts.”

“I see,” Janos says and slips the velvet box into his jacket pocket. “Take me back to your hotel. We will talk.”

Janos doesn’t have to ask twice.

* * *

It’s not a hotel that agrees with Janos’ standards, but then it had never entered Azazel’s mind that he would bring Janos here. He’d thought if Janos was going to take him back it would have been before now and he’d fantasized the reunion might take place in Janos’ apartment where the makeup sex would have been like a force of nature. But Janos is either not comfortable with his postage stamp of an apartment (exhibit A: Ikea catalog) or he wants to be able to leave if he wants to (exhibit B: broken bottles). Probably it’s both.

Old habit takes over when they get to Azazel’s room: after Azazel closes the door he turns back to take Janos’ jacket. Janos casually intercepts one of Azazel’s hands and begins to twist it around in what would be a painful hold if Azazel, just as casually, didn’t slip his hand away.

“No touching,” Azazel says, “I understand.”

Janos says nothing, only spends a minimal amount of movement to jerk two fingers toward the room’s small table situated by the room’s only window. It feels like being a dog commanded by his owner. Azazel lifts an eyebrow, but takes a seat at the table.

The view is terrible; nothing but the backside of another high rise. The view improves; Janos walks to the window, turns around, and leans back, limning himself in outside light and blocking the view in from outside. Azazel isn’t shy about looking him in the face despite the brightness. He admires how the light from outside illuminates the sides of Janos’ face but leaves the middle in darkness.

When he speaks, Janos’ lips hardly move. “What is holy to you, Azazel?”

It’s a strange question. There is no interest in philosophy within Azazel, no religion, and even though Janos was probably raised in the Catholic Church he doubts Janos has much interest, either. Azazel clasps his hands together and sets them on the table to make a stab at the concept. “Freedom, power, things like this.”

Janos crosses his arms over his chest and scoffs. “Swear on them. Swear on your freedom that you will never threaten mine.”

The words are a painful reminder of how unreasonable he’s been but Azazel accepts them as necessary. He looks Janos in the eyes and says, “I swear it.”

Janos steps away from the window and sets his palms on the table, shifting the table as it redistributes their weight. He leans in so close across the surface that his unfamiliar cologne precedes him. His eyes are fierce, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed. “I want to believe.”

He can’t help it; Azazel leans over his clasped hands and brings his face closer to Janos’. “It will never happen again.”

Janos’ eyes close. “Then tell me how you missed me.”

“Too much.” Azazel lifts up from the chair enough to breathe words onto Janos’ cheek. “Everyday I wait for your messages, every morning I search for your scent. If I am lucky I dream.”

Slowly, carefully, he brings his cheek to Janos’. When Janos doesn’t draw away Azazel tilts his temple to bump into Janos’. “You kept my scarf next to your pillow.”

Janos replies in what is barely a whisper. “What do you think that means?”

“I think maybe you missed me, too.”

Janos’s fingers trail across the other side of Azazel’s face; it’s all he can do not to shiver at the long-absent touch. Janos’ palm is warm on his face as his hand brushes forward and his fingers sink into Azazel’s hair.

“Yes,” Janos says. His grip grows tight; he pulls Azazel back. “Whose fault?”

It would be easy to resist or free himself from the hand in his hair, but Azazel doesn’t resist the pull; he stares into a furious expression.

“ _Que te den_.” As quickly as Janos uses his grip to pull them apart, he also uses it to smash them back together. Their lips mesh badly and their teeth hit hard, but Azazel doesn’t care, he wants anything he can get and a bad kiss is better than none. Maybe it’s like a junkie’s needle missing a vein, but delivering the payload all the same.

Clashing teeth and pinched lips notwithstanding, Azazel thighs ache from maintaining his awkward position over the table while he chases Janos’ mouth.

The pressure doesn’t abate, but they get the feel for the kiss and adjust to keep the possibility of injury low. Janos’ hand slips from Azazel’s hair and comes down on his shoulder; his other hand falls on the opposite shoulder for, Azazel assumes, balance and support. But then Janos pushes hard and throws himself back, stumbling toward the window.

Azazel drops his hands to the table and straightens his legs to keep his balance without standing up. He only has a few centimeters on Janos, but it’s always enough to be intimidating with a face scarred like his is. He waits and watches Janos catch first balance and then breath. His lips look moist and dark with their collision. Janos frowns, his brow furrows in concentration, and he quickly rounds the table. This time Azazel stands to meet him.

There’s no hesitation now; Janos seizes Azazel’s face in his hands and pulls him down into another meeting of lips. He bites down on Azazel’s lower lip and sucks on it while Azazel reaches up to mirror Janos’ grip on his face.

The move is met with resistance: Janos slaps both hands away. How quickly he’s forgotten the no touching rule, or at least thought it expired in the face of this aggressive behavior. Usually when they kiss, or even when they make up, Azazel leads. Janos had often put up resistance of some kind, but it had always been a conflict they both enjoyed. Azazel likes a challenge and Janos used to enjoy the attention and chase.

Janos doesn’t look annoyed, though, just as determined as before. He moves forward, crowding up into Azazel’s space and doesn’t stop. His hands come between them and he starts pushing at Azazel’s chest. Azazel doesn’t resist, he lets Janos walk him backwards to the bed and falls willingly when the back of his legs hit the bed. Janos remains standing imperiously above Azazel.

“I have no condoms or lubrication,” Janos says in a tone that matches his stance. “Do you?”

Azazel’s heart jerks in his chest, because he had hoped for makeup sex but had given up on it almost completely after talking to Raven. “Ground floor has apothecary.”

Janos reaches up under his scarf with both hands; from his seat on the bed Azazel can see Janos’s fingers beneath the silk working on the jacket’s top horn buttons. He slips one out of the first button hole and starts on the next. “Be quick.”

Again, Janos doesn’t have to ask twice. Azazel ducks under Janos’ elbow and heads for the door. It’s the eleventh floor but Azazel doesn’t want to wait for the elevator when he’s probably faster on the stairs. However, he maintains the foresight to hit the elevator call button when he leaves the stairwell and heads over to the hotel’s small drug store. The elevator is waiting for him when he gets out again with his purchase.

He’s a patient man, but Azazel’s energy level and anticipation have him on a short leash. When the elevator stops on the fifth floor and the doors open on two middle age men, Azazel wastes no politeness. He glares at their curious faces and firmly hits the button to close the doors again. There are advantages to being 183 centimeters of scary-looking Russian when it comes to Cold War era Americans.

Outside his room’s door, Azazel straightens his blazer before going inside. Janos is waiting by the bed with his jacket over an arm; he tosses the jacket to Azazel on his way in. Azazel takes it out of the air and drops the drug store’s plastic bag at the head of the bed.

“Your brand wasn’t there,” Azazel says and takes the jacket to hang up. He lingers over the shape of the jewelry box in the jacket’s pocket. Was it the ring or his words that brought them here? Both are inadequate.

Janos doesn’t reply; he pulls his sweater up over his body and, oddly, over the Turkish scarf. This, too, he throws to Azazel. Azazel doesn’t mind the scarf staying on, it doesn’t obscure the ladder of Janos’ defined abdominal muscles. Except, Janos’ abs aren’t defined the way he remembers.

The sweater goes on the hanger without Azazel paying it much mind; it goes on the rack in the same way.

“Do you eat well?” Azazel asks. Sex slips to the back of his mind. Janos is as beautiful as ever, but he’s lost weight. Maybe he should take Janos out to an American place with no stars but huge portions.

“The agency thought I was too big,” Janos says simply, hands now on his fly. “Now I run and do more yoga.”

Azazel finds himself conflicted. On one hand, Azazel can’t imagine why Janos’ agency would think him big at all. Janos has never been big; he’d perfected his body’s lean and athletic look for all the catalog work he’d gotten at Nike. Of course, on the other hand Janos has always been a strange amalgamation of Spanish machismo with a narcissism that Azazel had thought feminine. But having seen both Janos and Erik Lehnsherr in what he thought was women’s lingerie, Azazel has since admitted he’s not sure he knows what is what on this point.

He just knows he likes Janos’ long hair and maybe he can like this thinner look, too. “You look good.”

“Of course.” Janos pulls the pants down his legs and throws them at Azazel. “It’s what I do, but do not think it makes me your _puto_.”

There’s no easy way to reply to such a loaded comment, no matter how untrue Azazel feels it is. He catches the pants and hangs them up next. “This is not Russia or Franco’s Spain.”

Janos leaves his underwear and scarf on, but he sits on the bed to remove his socks. Azazel studies what he can see of his body, inspecting him for traces of the lovers Janos paraded before him just the other day. Does the scarf hide suspect marks or is it a reminder that it isn’t red? Or is it a veil to cover his weight loss somewhat?

“Strip.” Janos draws his feet off the floor and reclines facing Azazel.

When Azazel begins to move, Janos speaks again. “This is not Franco’s Spain, but I am a gay man and you, Azazel, are a Russian. My long hair, my lingerie work, and weight loss do not make me more woman.”

“Or less man.” Azazel replies. The reference to Russia’s homophobia isn’t untrue, but Azazel doesn’t really care that Janos is a man, it just makes things difficult when there’s so much hatred of homosexuality among his friends and associates. Everything would be much easier if Janos was a woman, or at least a man that easily passes as a woman. But now that he’s experienced so much time apart from Janos, he’s willing to take the risk to keep him.

He strips down to briefs and joins Janos on the bed. There’s tension in the air, but Azazel isn’t sure if it’s a general tension or a sexual one. It comes to him that while sex with Janos is always good and it’s even better after an argument, that he doesn’t need sex to be the axis they spin around. As hard as it has been to accept it, Azazel knows Janos is far more than a mysterious piece of ass. If he was just an ass to fuck, Azazel wouldn’t have missed him and he certainly wouldn’t be wiling to risk his business dealings to keep him.

Janos’ expression doesn’t open for Azazel’s utterance; he only looks at Azazel blankly and pulls absently at the fringe on the hem of his scarf.

“Janos,” Azazel says, “perhaps we wait on fucking, eh?”

It’s like a bell going off at a boxing match; Janos is on him in a second. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Janos is fast, but as Azazel’s back hits the bed and Janos seats himself directly on Azael’s crotch, well, Azazel remembers watching Janos play sports. He’s brutal on the tennis court, but when they’ve played one-on-one football it’s always full of collisions, kicked shins, and hooked ankles. Azazel doesn’t win as often as he’d like, but he’s never been a football fan, either.

Janos shifts so the cleft of his ass finds and traps Azazel’s soft cock. His expression breaks open, eyes wide but brows low. He lowers his hand until two fingers press against Azazel’s sternum. “I will show you who the _puto_ is.”

Their makeup sex has rarely been a gentle affair, and this isn’t gentle so far, but it’s usually a matter of Azazel fighting a very willing Janos for a sort of dominance. It’s always a matter of Janos giving in, never of Azazel ever truly winning over. Azazel has always known going into every encounter that things go according to Janos’ will or not at all.

This isn’t their normal makeup sex. When Azazel reaches down to move Janos’ hips so he isn’t crushing his dick, Janos slaps Azazel’s hands just as before. Azazel quirks an eyebrow at that; the no touching rule is still in effect?

Every attempt to initiate contact is rebuffed. Janos touches Azazel as he pleases whether it’s to grind down on his clothed cock, bite at his chest, or lay over him and rub their dicks together by undulating his body against Azazel’s. It’s all according to Janos’ will and Azazel is left to reach up to the head board rather than grab at the brown skin he loves so much.

“No touching,” Janos’ whisper is hot breath against Azazel’s ear, “until I tell you.”

Azazel breathes out a profanity and holds tighter to the headboard. Hot breath becomes Janos’ lips on his ear and then Janos’ teeth on his neck. Janos scratches his manicured nails down Azazel’s chest as he continues his grinding. Even with two layers of cloth between them and his cock trapped against his thigh there’s no denying the effect all that delicious friction has.

Azazel lifts his head so he can watch when Janos lifts his hips up and drags the constricting underwear down to free Azazel’s cock. He exhales hard in relief when his hot flesh swings up from the painful contortion of before.

Impatient, Janos jerks Azazel’s underwear further down his legs but leaves his own and the damn scarf on for no reason Azazel can discern. Thinking himself clever, Azazel bites at the scarf and catches hold of a fold of the silk. He jerks his head to pull it away from Janos’ chest. Had he used his hand he might have seen Janos’ hand coming before it hits the side of his head.

The slap causes a buzz in his ears, spikes his adrenaline, and makes the whole situation a touch more exciting.  Yes, Janos’ mercilessness drives him a bit mad, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I did not say.”

“Let me see you,” Azazel replies. “There is nothing to hide.”

Janos laughs at that and for a precious moment Azazel sees the Janos he knew in Portland. It feels unexpectedly good, like a pressure he didn’t know was compressing his chest has loosened. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t release the following smile intentionally; it feels good to see it either way.

Janos shifts on Azazel’s dick once again, but far less uncomfortably. He takes the scarf and pulls it away from his neck and shoulders to show his even complexion. The dip of his clavicles, the triangle of skin on his neck between the tendons, the breadth of his shoulders: all unmarked.

“Did you think you would see kiss marks? Love bites?”

Azazel lifts his shoulders in a shrug; he can’t say he’s sorry he doesn’t see any blemishes.

Janos smirks and slings the scarf around his neck with a flourish. Then he falls back down onto Azazel’s neck. The slick pressure of Janos’ tongue is good, the bite of his white teeth better, and then the hard suction of lips devilish. Azazel bares his teeth at the harsh sting. Janos isn’t playing around with this; there’s going to be a painful purple bruise that his collar sure as fuck better cover.

After he’s finished with its creation Janos laps at the mark. “Something like that, yes?”

Azazel takes a steadying breath, between the smack to his head and the pain of suction, his blood is racing like a dog on a hare. “Yes, like that.”

“Like a _puto_?”

“My Janos is nobody’s _puto_.”

Janos rears up and grinds his ass down the length of Azazel’s cock. “Exactly.”

“ _Yebat_ , Janos, let me touch you.”

It’s a profound relief to have Janos reach up and take his right hand down from the headboard. It’s even better when he guides that hand to Janos’ pelvis and presses it over his covered dick. Azazel needs no instructions, he grips Janos’ cock and rubs it through the cloth.

Things get better, easier from there. Janos continues to call all the shots; he commands Azazel with ungentle hands and reprimands painfully when his desires are not met. He makes Azazel do all the ‘puto work’ from sucking Janos’ cock through his briefs, to finally taking the briefs off to suck him properly, even slicking them both with lubricant (after being made to apologize again that the lubricant and condoms are inferior to Janos’ preferences).

They usually forgo condoms, both of them had been clean while in the relationship, but Azazel supposes it’s for the best since Janos hasn’t abstained like he has. However, any such thinking is blown out of his head when, with his wrists pinned to his chest, Janos rears up and sinks down onto Azazel’s painfully rigid cock.

It’s been too long. His blood roars too loudly in his veins; Azazel groans against the enrapturing warmth and constriction of Janos’ body and wills himself not to come. He curses a long string of _mat_ and tries to twist his wrists within Janos’ hands to grasp Janos’ wrists in turn. Janos bends down, and the veil of his hair covers their hands but then a sharp pain pinches his knuckles. There are teeth marks left in the pain’s wake.

“Janos,” Azazel says, voice rough with lust, “I cannot last long.”

Janos’ eyes are dark with the size of his pupils. His grip tightens and he gives a little shove down with his hips that rocks both their mouths open with the friction. Janos gasps for air and replies breathlessly, “It is better that way.”

Even with Janos biting at his ruined neck and digging his nails into his wrists, or maybe more because, every undulation of Janos’ hips, every gasp he watches Janos’ mouth make, with the sight of the silk scarf sticking to Janos’ sweaty skin, Azazel can’t fight his orgasm off for long. He lasts little more than a few minutes and with a final harsh gasp he pulls his wrists close, bucks his hips, and feels the pressure build, snap, and shudders through his release.

Above, Janos rides him all the harder until Azazel’s prick is soft and useless. Then Janos rises up on his knees, releases Azazel’s wrists, and takes his cock in hand.

Bleary and exhausted, Azazel lifts himself up on his elbows to watch Janos stroke himself off. He’s too tired to do anything but watch; Janos is beautiful anyway, but watching him chase an orgasm is privileged pornography. His face is divine even with wisps of long hair sticking to his face and striping the length of his throat. Azazel loves the way Janos’ eyes close and the distinctive jut of his jaw as he comes.

But then his ejaculate splashes against Azazel’s chest and runs down the contours of his abdominal muscles. Azazel smiles to himself, he doesn’t exactly enjoy getting hit with come, but in the context of their encounter thus far, he understands and welcomes it whether it’s meant to be claim struck or even a humiliation.

Spent, Janos falls down on the bed beside Azazel, the scarf sticks to him in places; he looks like a strange butterfly that’s come out of its chrysalis with wet wings. Content in the aftermath of his exertions, Azazel reaches over and grips the back of one of Janos’ hands and gives it a light squeeze. To his satisfaction, Janos twists his hand just enough to reciprocate.

Not one to stay dirty in bed and flush with a sense of victory, Azazel leans down to press his mouth against Janos’ sweaty forehead and then throws himself off the bed. He wishes the room’s only window let in more light; he wants to delay the bathroom mirror’s sight of the carnage that litters his body. Unfortunately there’s not enough light and he’s forced to flick the bathroom light on. Even though he tries to keep his eyes off the mirror as he turns on the bathroom sink it’s unavoidable. In his peripheral vision he sees the blotches and red welts. Giving in to the inevitable, Azazel looks up to survey the damage.

He looks like a man that’s freshly escaped extended combat with a blunt-toothed vampire that wouldn’t give up the fight. Red and purple mottle his neck and chest and his torso and biceps are striped with scratches. As bad as it looks now, tomorrow will be even worse.

Azazel shakes his head at his reflection and wipes quickly and thoroughly at the scratches and bites, some of which managed to draw a little blood. The welt on his neck is particularly noticeable and will show even if he wears one of his high collars. Remembering all the times he got carried away and marked Janos, Azazel makes a note to find a floor with an ice machine.

When he’s finished cleaning up he wets another washcloth and takes it out to Janos. Janos doesn’t protest when Azazel touches him; he even unwinds the scarf from around his neck so Azazel can wipe him down from throat to thighs. He turns over on his stomach once Azazel is finished with his front and makes no protest when Azazel lies down next to him.

For a while Azazel is content to doze, his skin warm against the brown of Janos’ and his nose tucked against the back of Janos’ neck. Janos’ scent overwhelms the shampoo and cologne Azazel doesn’t recognize; it puts him at ease the way a good hand job might. For the first time since he checked in to this hotel it’s possible to finally feel comfortable in the strange bed he’s been sleeping in.

Forgetting those months they spent apart and all the trouble New York City presents him, Azazel turns his head and presses his lips to Janos’ warm shoulder. In the warmth and languor of sex and under the influence of endorphin, Azazel closes his eyes and forgets to open them again.

He’s only aware he had fallen asleep when he hears Janos’ voice and feels his breath on his face.

“—you were gone.”

He doesn’t remember Janos turning around or how their arms came to be draped around each other. Janos’ eyes are softer than they’ve been in days as he stares into Azazel’s face. “What? Say again?”

“I could not listen to Miguel Bose while you were gone.”

Azazel isn’t much of a fan, but he’s not going to say anything about that now. “Will you listen to him from now?”

“Except for _Si tu no vuelves_ , yes.” Janos pulls lightly at Azazel’s goatee. “Maybe if you shave this you will not be very scary.”

Azazel runs a hand up Janos’ back and tugs a lock of long hair. “And if you cut this?”

Janos’ lips quirk in a smile but his face takes a morose cast all the same. “I will cut it next week for more pictures. They want to see if I am more marketable with or without long hair. But growing it long again can be awkward.”

Imagining Janos with short hair isn’t difficult; Azazel has seen his hair slicked back in the shower and at the beach in Oregon, but Janos likes having long hair. He’s always said it makes him more distinctive to recruiters. Azazel thinks it’s his hazel eyes and jaw that set him apart, but he’s never said.

Janos’ hair, his body, what else is his agency unsatisfied with? His skin? The softly Arabic features that are the legacy of his Andalusian ancestry? Sometimes Janos’ long hair helps him transit smoothly in uptight TSA airports where Azazel, despite his scars and accent, doesn’t have as much trouble. It’s ridiculous; Azazel’s the one with Muslim family members, not Janos.

Maybe that is why Janos has seemed so weary beyond the stupidity of the break up? Maybe that’s why the Ikea furniture, the strange state of his wine collection, his cheap groceries. Is he unhappy with the demands being made on his image?

Azazel slips an arm around Janos’ waist and pulls him close so he can better enclose him. “Your agency asks for many changes. How do you feel?”

Janos lays an arm over Azazel’s and closes his hand over Azazel’s elbow. “The Portland loft was $900 a month divided between three people. My apartment here is near a station; it is very expensive. I have money saved, but I can’t live the way I did in Portland. I need more work.”

Azazel’s kneejerk reaction is to tell Janos to reconsider going back to Portland, but it’s the exact wrong thing to say. It goes against his heart, but Azazel pulls away and goes to the closet to get his wallet and pull out the rest of his cash. He comes back over and presses the money into Janos’ hands. “Buy some nice things and get meat from proper butcher, not Oscar Meyer.”

“I do get meat from a proper butcher,” Janos says with such a straight face that Azazel doesn’t get the joke at first. Then he smiles, because this is more like his Janos, his Yanochka.

Unfortunately, Janos spoils the joke by sitting up and pushing the roll of money back at Azazel. “I am not your puto.”

“Janos.” Azazel sighs and pulls him against his side. “No, you are no puto, no _blyad_. You only belong to me if I belong to you, eh?” With his free hand Azazel gestures up and down his bruised and scratched body. “This is how you said you are no puto. You want to fuck my ass next? Okay.”

The expression on Janos’ face goes carefully neutral. It makes Azazel think that maybe he has, once again, been too indelicate. But then Janos pushes Azazel’s arm off and takes the money. “The vicuña will keep my body warm, and the ring will warm my heart, but money is good, too.”

Janos stretches to set the money on the bedside table. He stretches in the opposite direction for the cast-off scarf. Gathering it up in his hands he comes back and lifts the scarf up to Azazel like an offering.

Intense déjà vu settles over Azazel; he looks at the scarf and then Janos. “What?”

“Smell.”

The whole room smells of sex and when Azazel bends his neck to smell the silk; it’s no surprise the scarf doesn’t smell much different, just more strongly of Janos. And that’s when he remembers where the déjà vu comes from and understands what Janos has in mind.

He takes the scarf with a smirk. “No trade, eh?”

Janos is a master of shrugging in such a way as to say he doesn’t care, but that you should appreciate what he’s doing anyway. “For the long weeks on the cold ocean. You will not sleep alone.”

Azazel folds the scarf carefully and sets it aside on one of the bed’s two pillows. He slings an arm around Janos’ shoulders and pulls him down. Once he has the bed’s disheveled bedding pulled over them he rests his head on Janos’ shoulder. “Maybe not, but for now I will catch up.”

* * *

It takes nearly two weeks of asking after Janos’ haircut before Janos consents to send selfies again. Unfortunately his agreement coincides with an early November trip to Omsk for the Kazakh side of his family’s New Year celebration and Azazel has a horde of nieces, nephews, and little cousins that are scared of him, but go through all his shit anyway. There’s also the not so inconsequential issue of using his American phone in Russia, even if it is Siberia. It’s a shame because Omsk runs an average temperature of -7 C this time of year and Azazel has no doubt that a few of the pictures would warm him up nicely.

It isn’t until his connection in Helsinki that he finally digs out his phone, sim card, and battery and puts them together again. Standing with his back to a wall and his phone muted, Azazel waits patiently while his messaging app downloads its burden. Janos has sent a few messages, but mostly he has sent images, plenty of images.

Seeing Janos with short hair is a jolt. The long hair softened his face, made him prettier and approachable; with short hair his jaw looks more stubborn and his cheekbones sharper. He looks more like a brooding asshole when he looks serious than Azazel ever thought Janos could. It’s unexpectedly sexy, especially the ones where his shirt is open in the front. But those are the professional shots, the candids, the ones Janos took himself are softer and…

Azazel stops and goes back to the professional shot where Janos has his arms over his head and his white button up parts over his body like sea foam from a male Venus. It’s only been a few weeks, but Janos’ stomach isn’t as smooth as it was; he’s gone back to work on his muscular definition. Azazel remembers clearly Janos saying that wasn’t the plan.

It occurs to him as he stands there in the airport, breathing recycled air, that this is a strategy familiar to Janos. Janos knows very well that by not speaking much, people tend to place great weight on his words when he finally does say something. People don’t expect Janos to lie, but he does when it serves him and he’s usually good at it.

The agency obviously never asked Janos to soften his image. Once he thinks about that it calls many more things into question, like Janos’ food and furniture situation. Janos isn’t the type to make do with terrible food or whatever he sees on Ikea's website. He will never be the type to half-ass his wine.

Azazel thinks about the scarf on Janos’ bed and calls himself a fool. Janos had missed him, he’d missed him and he’d been depressed. All Azazel's fault.

And then there was the matter of Janos’ three lovers; he had assumed Janos was gay, maybe not gold star gay, but almost exclusively gay. Perhaps he’d been with the man from Basque, but two women? Doubtful. Perhaps one woman, but not two. Azazel reasons that when he came back, the sadness Janos had been feeling had curdled into fury and vindictiveness. It’s possible that Janos’ whole plan had been to string him along before dumping him that Sunday morning at the café.

If that were so, it was Raven that saved him by helping him understand the extent of his damages. If she weren’t already apparently wealthy, he’d buy her a car instead of helping her find one like he’d promised.

It’s late in New York, Janos should be asleep, but Azazel types out a message anyway. _Short hair is unexpectedly good, but I think it is not possible to make your face look bad._

He isn't going to ask for the truth about the three lovers or the discrepancy in his story about what his agency wants. The important thing is that Janos looks healthier and happier and matters of furniture and cheap wine can be solved with money and doting. As for whether Janos had sex with one, all three or even none of those people, it doesn’t matter; he’s with Azazel now.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for rough sex with some light humiliation. It's consensual, but has a strong punitive vein.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the Royksopp song, _I Had This Thing_ and uses a line from the lyrics for the title.


End file.
